Atonement
by James Connoct
Summary: The Doctor is dead. But from the ashes, an angel rises. (Work in progress- Doctor Who meets Supernatural) NOTE: This will be uploaded only occasionally; college and work take a lot of time. Still, feel free to leave a tip or review, and I'll try my best to incorporate it. Hope y'all enjoy!
1. Prologue

He didn't want to go. But he supposed that was that, really: that all things had to die eventually, and he'd lived longer than most.

Still, there was _more, _so much _more _to be done, and he? He was leaving, dying and dying and expelling his existence in a flash of eternity that would never be here, or _there _again.

The Doctor supposed he wasn't really dying, per se, examined the last flowing bits of himself as they flowed past his person and into the bursting, burning, dying air of the TARDIS. No, he wasn't dying- there would always be another Doctor (until there wasn't, and the Doctor had never paused to consider that)- but _he _was dying, and that gave him cause to regret his end.

Was it selfish? Yes. Why was that surprising? Should it be?

Of course it was. He had known it was coming, but perhaps the cruel irony of it all was that he had thought that he'd escaped his own fate. But the drums always beat, and in the end, he'd faced his death with the stinging tears and the broken heart of a warrior whose battle is fought and whose war is won, but must fall by his own hand in the end. The Doctor had brought himself down upon his own kindness, torn apart by his nature. He'd always supposed that would be the way, that he would atone for his sins eventually through his own death. Perhaps that was why he allowed himself to die, every time.

_Two billion, four hundred-seventy million. _

And they weren't all. He tried, so many times, to save them, when he was younger. But he couldn't. And so, the cost of their lives was paid for by his own. The Doctor experienced pain, unimaginable pain, threw back his head and screamed as each atom of his being was twisted in two, a thousand nuclear explosions occurring inside his body, and then reformed.

It was surprising because he'd fully expected it to be this way. He'd fully anticipated, from the moment he had first seen Rose Tyler with his own eyes, it to be this way. Wanted it to be this way. That was why he'd given her himself. A better version, one who was not guilty of the crimes he'd committed-

but that was a lie, too, and a self-made one; he'd watched Him kill the Daleks

-and so he was flawed by virtue of existence.

So why was it surprising?

He was surprised because he was human. He'd modeled himself after a human, in the beginning. And then he'd as good as became one, he supposed, and had forgotten why his Time Lord self had never been so human before. Pride had killed him. His own faults. But he _wanted, _wanted so _badly _to redeem himself.

And now- his hands were no longer his own, he could _feel _his ribs snapping in two and reforming around his new bursting-now sutured together- hearts- he would never be afforded that chance. And in all his time, as he remembered Rose and felt the cold Void clutch at his being, as he felt so inescapably _alone _and desolate, he wished that he did not have to go.

One more time, then. To see her. To tell her he love he-

The Tenth reincarnation of the man known to the universe as The Doctor died in agony, and the universe keened in mourning.


	2. Chapter 2- Molding

The Doctor wondered what happened to Time Lords when they died. An interesting thought, as he was, himself, dead. He'd have smiled if he could, if he still had the facial muscles and the bones to do it, but the simple truth was that he did not and he could not smile because, of course, he was dead. The Doctor sighed plaintively- or would have, because he could hear himself doing it in his mind, but again with the time-space wibbly-wobbly flesh problems.

_Still, plenty of time. Lots of time, loads of time. Well, if time exists any more._

The Doctor felt his own amusement, reverberating in himself and in the space his mind occupied like a ripple of water. It was dark, though, and The Doctor could do nothing but wait. He _was _dead, wasn't he? Gone as surely as he'd been the last time he'd regenerated. The Time Lord knew he should be. But did he _want _to be? He'd have laughed at that question.

Light. Blinding, flashing, light, and nothing but light.

_Oh. That's what happens. _

And suddenly, The Doctor _was. _Every particle of his being was present again, which- and The Doctor blinked here, because it was simply _impossible_- meant that he was in another place other than the one he'd occupied in the temporal stream of space-time dimensions.

The Time Lord grinned, beamed at the white nothingness around him, as he raised his hands (and they were _his _hands, no less!) to his jaw, checked for-

"Teeth! I still have teeth! Brilliant!"

The Doctor paced over the blank air, nothing to support him, no evidence of gravity, not anything. He ran one hand through his hair- and he loved his hair, it was one of his favorite parts about being him, really- and stopped, words seeming to explode like a pent-up stream.

"How am I here? Paradox? Slip of the time-space paradigm? No, no, never happened like _this _before, because I'm still me and I've never been here. _Could_ be that the Codex infinity stream somehow relapsed into the TARDIS core, but there's no TARDIS…"

The Doctor blinked again, eyebrows scrunched together in a deep frown as he looked down. The corners of his mouth twitched as he spoke.

"And I'm naked. That's… interesting. Never been displaced from reality naked. Still, nevermind that, I've never been displaced from reality. Could do with my sonic, though…"

And he held his sonic. The Doctor stopped, dead silent. The blankness around him echoed with the sound of his voice. The Tenth regeneration of the Doctor was, for once, nonplussed. He raised the screwdriver in front of him, clicked through the settings of it- all two hundred seventy-four of them- as he scanned around him and found…

Nothing. There was nothing around him, no source of power, _nothing _except for him and his screwdriver. Which meant….

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, thought of his suit.

Warm fabric, chestnut brown with sky blue pinstripes, the best suit he could ask for- the first and only suit he'd wanted, really- materialized on his body. His trainers, too, seemed to appear from the nothingness around him, as did his glasses and every other thing he normally carried with him.

The Doctor ran his tongue over his teeth, noted his hair was suddenly coifed in its usual manner.

_I'm in my own closet reality. _

The Time Lord squinted, felt his hearts hammer at his chest. He slowly began to hum, rocking back and forth on his heels before expelling his thoughts in a mad dash of ideas.

"TARDIS, flying castle, frogs on a boat, Moses, Galifreyan city in model, Richard Nixon, dinosaur riding a cat, blue jalopy, cheesecake, one frappuccino extra tall whipped cream cherry on top with an extra shot of chocolate syrup!"

The blankness suddenly _expanded, _every single one of the things The Doctor had spoken of seemed to jump from the air with the roars of engines and the TARDIS and creatures, a befuddled American president, and the cold weight of a Starbucks drink in the Time Lord's left hand.

The Doctor stared, yelled, "And now _nothing!"_

Blankness.

He stood by himself in a blank, white, nothingness. The Time Lord fumbled his words, attempted to speak but could not. Finally, he sputtered out four questions.

"What. What? _What? __**WHAT?"**_

The Doctor had worked madly. Burning curiosity as he ran, mad dash, through the nothingness, trying to reach an end, a border, a _something, _had faded into acceptance that he was trapped in an expanse of infinity. And so, the Time Lord began to work. The TARDIS' engine would not run, something kept it grounded, and he had built another. That, too, had failed. The Doctor had then materialized four separate but identical TARDISes, as well as one entirely different and built to his own specifications.

There was nothing he could not do, and everything _to _do. And yet...

The Doctor stared blindly through space, sat down and rested his head on his hands, alone in his own separate- he guessed, at least- universe.

_I suppose this is what happens to me. I'm locked in my own separate universe inside my mind, where nothing but me exists. Until I die. But I already _have. _And now? _

It was a fair question, he thought. Because he was alone, so alone, and there was nothing he couldn't do, but he was alone. He sat for eternity, lacking hunger, lacking the need to think, lacking life.

It was- The Doctor had realized this after he realized he was essentially a god in his own right- Hell. Nothing new to see, nothing original to create, simply reused ideas and knowledge of things he'd already known.

And worst of all, he could not die.

The Doctor sat with his back against the TARDIS, staring off into the stars he'd made appear a few moments earlier. Or hours, maybe. Possibly just minutes. That _was _a strange concept. Did time exist anymore?

"Well. If it did, I wish something would _happen," _he mused, "because I'm absolute rubbish at playing at god."

The Time Lord remembered the last time he'd done that. _The last time I was the Time Lord victorious. The survivor. _

He had failed. And the one person he'd wanted to save, _had _saved? Dead. Her blood on his hands. Images flashed before his eyes without his volition- the rain outside of a house which flashed once with light before falling silent.

Above all else, The Doctor felt a cold weight in his chest, a sinking grasp on his soul. He'd ran from it during his life. Too fast for it to catch up, because beneath it all, he knew his own crimes. Time passed. Faces floated in his eyes. Them, too. All on his hands.

_Two billion, four hundred-seventy million. _

The Doctor blinked.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "So, so sorry."

Hot tears fell from his eyes.

Heat flashed in his chest, the Doctor stood and roared into the whiteness, felt his lungs burn with the anger of his cry-

"_**All I wanted was to save them!" **_

His voice did not echo in the empty space- it simply ceased to be. Silence once more. The Time Lord fell to his knees, buried his face in his hands as he spoke once more to nobody- or somebody, as he was dead- in particular. He felt his voice break as the warmth of rage faded from him and left him cold. The voice in his head whispered to him unbidden, and he whispered back.

_Two billion, four hundred-seventy million._

"I'm _sorry. _So, so sorry. If I could save them, if I could just do _something, _anything at all..."

_Two billion, four hundred-seventy million._

The Doctor groaned in pain, allowed his hands to drop, wet with tears, and stared into the whiteness above.

"Anything," he repeated, wishing the pain in his chest would cease along with his feelings, "Anything at all. Please."

His words did not echo. His thoughts continued. And The Doctor remained motionless. The longing in his chest intensified to a physical ache. When his lips formed words, no air passed them.

"_Anything." _

And suddenly, The Doctor burned.


	3. Chapter 3- Whispers in the Dark

In the beginning, Castiel was simply a tool. He had watched humanity rise and fall, done the work of his Father, and found that it was good. He had given Christ, God himself, bread and water, had watched him die and rise once more.

He had always been aware of his own position. A tool, an angel. He did as he was commanded; no more or less. And more than that, through thousands of years, he did Heaven's work in the realm above without question. Question was not his place.

One day, he became curious. Two humans, in particular, were fascinating. They were not tools, and yet did the work that Castiel himself did of their own will. Why? Moreover, if his work was not particular to himself, even to angels, why did he himself do it?

Castiel had never had cause to question his own existence. But these Winchesters, so fragile, so… _human, _had somehow turned his mind in upon itself. Before that, before them, there had been Raphael, always there to tell him what needed to be done. That was what he was, after all: a tool for the use of Heaven.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, knife glinting in the moonlight. To his left, the human named Bobby stood, poised to strike. Castiel blinked.

That was a good question.

_I'm the Doc—_

No, not that- _never _that, that was gone and dead and passed away.

What had Castiel been thinking of?

_Who am I?_

Castiel had no idea. He was an angel, a tool. Tools did not have human characteristics that were explainable, weren't even remotely relatable to humans. He had a name, yes, but it was more for identification than for identity. Tools existed for use, not for the simple purpose of existing.

So he would explain what he was used for.

Castiel spoke slowly, with purpose, as if he truly understood the idea of being, and held his gaze on Dean Winchester.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition," He said.

And then Dean stabbed him.

_Oh. _

Castiel examined the knife in his vessel's chest and decided he would give it back. The angel gripped the weapon and jerked it out, noting the blood on the blade. His vessel would not likely survive that.

_An acceptable loss. His sacrifice will be honored. _

Is that right, Castiel?

_Whispers. Nothing. Nothing left._

Castiel dropped the knife as he reacted to Bobby's attack, reaching out without looking, trusting in his power to catch the sword directed at his neck. He did not return the action- Dean would have need of Bobby- and sent the human into a deep sleep. Finally, he returned his attention to the shocked Winchester in front of him.

"We need to talk, Dean. Alone."

Dean's eyes flicked to Bobby, then to Castiel. For a moment, it seemed as if the boy might attack him again, but Dean knelt next to Bobby, presumably looking for signs of life. Castiel turned away, examined a small booklet on mechanics- fascinating things, mechanics, especially since humans made them. Well, hum-

_A whisper, nothing more. _

Dean. Right. Castiel grimaced; they had little and less time.

"Your friend is alive," He said.

Dean looked up, anger smoldering in his eyes. "Who are you?"

That question again. Castiel had told him, hadn't he? He was the one who had saved Dean, had shielded him—the Shield of God.

You're forgetting, Castiel. Who _are_ you?

_Whispers in the dark._

An Angel of the Lord, a captain of the Army of God, a Shield, a tool—no, the Winchester boy was asking something else. So the angel gave him the only answer left to him.

"Castiel."

"Yeah," Dean growled, "I figured that much; I mean _what _are you?"

Castiel felt a strange sense of relief; that answer had, by some criteria or another, been correct. And this question was far easier. Perhaps he'd had it backwards—or perhaps humans did.

"An Angel of the Lord." Castiel replied.

And Dean Winchester stared at him as if he'd have said he was God himself.

"Get the hell out. There's no such thing," The boy said.

Castiel met Dean's gaze with his own, found it interesting how unafraid it was, the defiance mixed with courage and desperation.

_He will learn. He will learn, even if I must force him to._

Castiel could already see the plan, the battle to victory. If he took Dean with him _now, _forced him to cooperate, to see what it would take for them, he could accomplish his task, his righteous mission. It wasn't as if the boy could stop him.

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

Castiel spread his Wings, felt his essence flood the room as lightning flashed and thunder boomed, could _feel _the power course through him. The time was now, before Dean could react or fight ba-

_Is this how it felt? To be the master of time itself and control the fate of untold millions? Can you remember, Castiel? _

And suddenly Castiel could not bear to continue. A feeling that washed his body and face with heat and a stirring pain in his chest shattered his plan. His wings and his power disappeared. What was happening to him?

_You can't force somebody to learn, Castiel. You know that. Humans are a wishy-washy lot, but they'll pick up eventually. _

_ Whispers in the dark. _

"Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes," Dean said.

Ah. That.

"I warned her not to spy on my true form," Castiel said. "It can be… overwhelming to humans. So can my real voice, but you already knew that."

Castiel could see Dean's incredulity in his eyes, could see that this Winchester, this human, would simply not accept what was told to him. Strange, all things considered. What cause had Castiel to lie to him? And yet, the spark of comprehension was there, too, behind the suspicion and the doubt and that strange… _other _thing that flickered, neither fear nor joy.

"You mean at the gas station and the motel… that was you _talking?_" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded.

"Buddy, next time, lower the volume." Dean said, raising an eyebrow.

The angel found himself pursing his lips. "That… was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage; I'd assumed that you were one of them. I was wrong."

Why was he explaining this? His brothers wouldn't; Raphael would have pulverized this human by now.

_Because you aren't them. You are a shield, not a sword. A shield for these humans, a shield for the weak, for those who are in need, for a galaxy and for time itself._

Whispers, nothing more.

Dean's voice broke through his thoughts. "And what 'visage' are you in now, huh? A holy tax accountant?"

Castiel actually felt offended. He _liked _this form- wait, he liked something?- and the coat, the tie, the way Novak had styled his hair. It… fit.

_ Fit what? _

"This," Castiel stammered, "This-this is a vessel."

Dean stared at him, again with disbelief. "You're _possessing _some poor bastard?"

The angel backpedaled. He hadn't expected Dean to be so… inquisitive in regards to his mortal form. "He was a very devout man; he actually prayed for this."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, pal, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?"

That question again. And this time, Castiel had no answer except the nagging feeling that somehow, some way, he was missing something. The angel cocked his head, frowned on some sort of instinct.

"I told you," Castiel offered, confused.

Dean nodded, but interestingly, the action didn't seem to match his feelings. Humans were so strange. Why couldn't they simply say what they mean?

"Right," Dean said, the word a dagger, "And why would an _angel _rescue me from Hell?"

Castiel blinked. That wasn't what the Winchester boy was asking. Dean wasn't asking why _he _would rescue him from Hell, and Castiel knew it, even if he didn't know _why _he knew it. What was he asking, then?

_Answer. It will come._

Castiel tried to _see_ Dean, to look through him and find what to say, but could not. The Hunter was a statue, and his eyes were waters too stormy to pass through. But why did he care? His job was not to analyze.

_Answer, Castiel. _

As if bidden by his Father, Castiel answered. "Good things do happen, Dean."

The veins in the boy's forehead were bulging, the cords in his neck tight. A faint sheen of sweat shimmered on Dean's skin. His voice was filled with pain, with mistrust.

"Not in my experience."

_ Now, Castiel. Now look. _

And the angel _felt. _

Dean Winchester's body had left Hell. His soul, too- most of it, anyways, the parts that were still left in him- but his heart? Dean's heart was his own personal hell. Rage, darkness, unimaginable guilt, the feeling that he _should have done more-_

_ Or is that your own heart, Castiel? Behind the façade, behind the Shield of God. _

_**No. **_

For a moment, he felt the need to shield this Winchester, and knew his purpose. And then it was gone, the urge replaced by a sorrow for this human, this man with so little left in the world.

_An angel is a tool, and does what he is bidden._

But he knew why Dean Winchester would not, could not, believe. He took one step closer to the human and leveled his gaze with the boy's, staring into him.

"You don't think you deserve to be saved," Castiel realized.

Dean seemed to be shocked, worked his mouth for several moments without speaking.

"Why'd you do it?" He asked again.

_He isn't yet ready. I must give him faith, give him a reason. _

Castiel imparted every word he spoke with the weight of truth and purpose.

"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."

_ Mm. Very dramatic. Not bad for an angel._

Whispers in the dark, nothing more.


End file.
